Tell-Tale

by Sam Hayes

  ‘You’ll just have to tell Mick you had an accident, won’t you?’ Burnett pushed the canvas and watched as it toppled flat on its face.

  ‘You’re evil,’ Nina sobbed. ‘Pure evil.’ Fighting hard against the terror binding her muscles, she turned and ran out of the studio, through the floodlit garden, and up towards the house. She batted away the tears as they poured from her eyes – tears of fear and anger because her perfect life was being destroyed. She held back the wail that filled her chest, and tripped as she ran through the grass.

  How did he find me?

  As she came up to the back door, she saw Mick through the kitchen window. Nina was sure of only one thing – that by the time she got inside, she must appear composed and calm, as if nothing at all had happened, as if she had had a perfectly pleasant time in the studio with Burnett. Nina knew that when she faced her husband, she must be a different woman entirely.

  CHAPTER 35

  I tried to tell them. It took two days before I could get the words out. They thought I had laryngitis. Patricia gave me some medicine.

  ‘And Chef was there,’ I told her. She looked at me for a moment, shook her head, then decided she didn’t have time to listen to the rest. When Miss Maddocks came on duty, she told me off for messing up my clothes.

  ‘What are these doing crumpled and bloody under your bed?’ She whipped out the stiff, sticky garments that I’d been wearing when they took me. She screwed up her nose at the smell.

  ‘Those men hurt me,’ I whispered. ‘And Chef was there.’

  Miss Maddocks stared at me, stretched her mouth in thought. Then she went around the dormitory harvesting dirty clothes, picking up toys off the floor. ‘When will you girls learn,’ she mumbled. ‘Mess, mess, mess.’

  ‘Miss Maddocks,’ I begged. ‘Please listen. They did bad things to me.’ I started to cry. ‘Things they shouldn’t do.’ They were tears of frustration. Why wouldn’t she listen? Why hadn’t any of the other children told?

  ‘Ava Atwood, you are the biggest tittle-tattle I know. One day those dogs are going to have a feast of your tongue.’

  Men from the council came. An inspection, Patricia told us. We had to scrub the place from top to bottom, even the horrid old dusty rooms that never got used. The building was huge and we weren’t usually allowed in half of it. Betsy trotted after me, too young to be of any real help.

  ‘What’s a spekshun?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t like it much if it means we have to do all this cleaning.’ I slopped a wet mop on the old floorboards. A warm musty smell rose from the wood. Betsy jumped in the wet bits and made footprints in the dry areas.

  There were half a dozen of them, five men and one woman, all wearing dark suits. We were made to line up in the dining room and sing a song while they drank coffee. I recognised one of the men, remembered his red nose, the brown flecks on his forehead. I screwed up my eyes.

  ‘Very commendable,’ one of them said to the home director, Mr Leaby. We only ever saw Mr Leaby when there was an emergency or someone from the council came. ‘You’re running a tight ship.’

  There was a clatter of crockery as they finished, a clap of hands as one of the older male carers sent us away, and then the people from the council spread like an infestation of beetles throughout our home. They spent three days observing what went on, watching how the staff dealt with us, poring over files and accounts in the office, and making a note of what we were fed. It was the best few days of my life at Roecliffe. We ate better food, all the staff were nice to us, not just Patricia and Miss Maddocks, and they even played games and allowed us to watch what we wanted on television.

  And then my father came.

  ‘My little Ava bird,’ he said, standing in the doorway to the living room. They’d lit a fire. It was warm and cosy and Chef had made us cakes. I was sitting on the floor with Betsy. We’d been given a jigsaw puzzle to do. It was new because of the inspection. I had my hand over half a face and a bit of sky. I was forcing a piece in.

  ‘Dad?’ I said quietly. Was I seeing things?

  There were two men from the council sitting at the other end of the room. I stood up, not taking my eyes off him in case he disappeared again. My legs fizzed from pins and needles. ‘Dad, is it really you?’ I walked over to him. He was still wearing that old sheepskin coat.

  ‘Ava bird, how you’ve grown!’ He held out his arms and blanketed me in a hug that I’d dreamt about for years.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ I told him. On my fingers, pushed deep into the shaggy lining of his coat, I counted the years. ‘I’ve waited for five years, Dad.’ I wanted to hit him, but my arms went limp at the sight of him. ‘Have you come to take me home now?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Patricia,’ he said. His eyes darted around the room. My heart slopped from my chest, into my belly, and down into my feet. I couldn’t even cry.

  ‘She’s not here,’ I said. ‘It’s her day off.’ I knew all the staff schedules; knew when to keep out of the way when the nasty ones came on duty.

  ‘Damn,’ my dad said. ‘When’s she back?’ He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and put one between his lips. It wiggled as he spoke. ‘I need to see her.’ His eyes darted everywhere, as if doing that would make Patricia appear.

  Grudgingly, when he realised that he’d had a wasted journey, Dad drove me to McDonald’s. On the way, he told me that he and Patricia had got married two years ago.

  ‘But she left me soon after,’ he said, adding a third sachet of sugar to his coffee. I had a Coke and a cheeseburger. We were sitting in the smoking area and it made me cough.

  I didn’t say anything about him getting married, about him not telling me, about him not even asking me to the wedding. He showed me a photograph of it, all crumpled in his wallet. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ he said.

  That would explain that hairdo, I thought, remembering, noticing the way it was pinned up, ringlets at her cheeks. Ages ago she had come into work looking like that, but a bit less neat, and with rosy cheeks. There was a boy in the photo, wearing a smart suit.

  What’s worse? I wondered after I told Dad that the photograph was nice, that Patricia looked pretty, that I was happy for him even though she had left him; what’s worse, I thought, swallowing away the lump in my throat, your dad getting secretly married, or being raped by a stranger?

  I wasn’t sure. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d even been raped. I’d seen some things on the news, and at school I’d overheard the bigger girls gossiping. What I didn’t understand was that, in all the cases I’d heard about, the victims had wanted to die. I’d felt a lot of things, but not that.

  The first time Betsy went missing, it was for a whole day. They found her up a tree, stuck like a kitten. She clung on to the knotty branch of the apple tree, her arms and legs wrapped round it. Her face was pressed into the bark.

  ‘I wanted an apple,’ she wailed. Patricia called for the gardener to fetch a ladder. ‘And I was going to get you one,’ she told me. Instead, what she got was a whipping by one of the nameless nasty carers, and an early bedtime with no supper. I saved her some sausage and some bread.

  I sat on the edge of her bed and took them from my pocket. The sausage had gone cold and was covered in fluff. Betsy didn’t care. She nibbled at it and cried, telling me she wanted to go home, wherever that was. I couldn’t help her, and that made me angry. When I got angry, I bound it all up and stashed it deep inside. If I couldn’t help myself, how was I supposed to help her? Like everyone else, we just waited for one day to turn into the next.

  That sausage was pretty much the last thing, apart from sweets, that Betsy ate for a year. The next time she went missing was one winter evening. She was back in her bed by morning, seemed fine, stared at her cereal, so I didn’t ask questions, didn’t think to probe into the secrets that lay behind her silent eyes as she drizzled milk off her spoon. I knew better than that by now, and besides, ther
e was nothing to say. Simply nothing to tell about the ones who got taken. They went, they came back, they got on with life. What else were we to do? And if they didn’t come back, there was certainly nothing else to be said – just a race for their clothes, their toys, and, if we were lucky, a bag of sweets left behind in their cupboard.

  When I told Miss Maddocks that Betsy wasn’t eating, that she was getting thinner, she stared at me. She carried on filling out the forms. Some tales, I’d learned over the years, weren’t even worth telling.

  CHAPTER 36

  I’m risking my job as well as expulsion for Fliss and Jenny. But they’re up for it, especially when I tell them I’ll give them twenty pounds each to keep their mouths shut. ‘Even if Mr Palmer strings you up by your necks and whips your bare backs with a willow branch?’

  ‘We’re not stupid.’ Jenny’s voice is crisp and sieved of all lazy accents. Fliss wears an expensive perfume and carries the latest iPod.

  The girls look at each other as if I’m their mother; as if I’m so old they can’t contemplate ever being my age. Yeah, right, Mum, they would say before skulking off to their rooms to text or instant message their mates.

  ‘It’s probably best if we go to the IT room now,’ Jenny says. ‘It’s nearly study time and won’t look too odd if we’re in there. If anyone asks why you’re there with us, just say one of us came to get you because the other was feeling ill.’

  ‘I’m excellent at fake fainting,’ Fliss adds with a smile that is no doubt costing her parents thousands in orthodontic treatment.

  ‘You’ll only have to do this the once,’ I tell them. ‘I won’t bother you again.’ I flicker a smile back, not wanting them to think I’m weird or stalking someone online. They don’t need to know reasons and, with twenty pounds pressed into their palms, I doubt if they’ll ask why.

  The IT room is hot and humming and, thankfully, empty. Jenny boots up a terminal and Fliss drags over a couple of extra chairs so we can all see the monitor. Fliss looks at me sympathetically. ‘There are websites that adults go on, you know, to meet people their own age. Do you want me to find one of those for you?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. You know the site I want.’ I glance at the door. ‘Can you hurry?’ Several teachers pass by, glancing in through the square of glass. If Mr McBain comes in, there’ll be questions that no amount of fainting will disguise.

  ‘OK,’ Fliss says, nudging Jenny. When the terminal is ready, Jenny brings up an internet window and types with lightning speed. Her fingers dance their way to an unknown website, where she enters usernames and passwords and then, suddenly, a log-in screen resolves in front of us.

  ‘You’re going to need an account,’ Jenny says, sighing. ‘That means you have to think of a nickname for yourself and enter lots of details. It’ll take time.’ The girls are already fidgety.

  ‘Can you log in to yours, so I can have a look around?’ I assume they have an account because I saw them on it before. If this works, then I know I’ll want to make one of my own, somehow find a way to come back to the site often. I rein in my anticipation, trying to keep my breathing quiet as I lean close to the monitor.

  ‘Sure,’ Jenny says and again her fingers slide swiftly across the keys as she enters her username and password.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Fliss shrieks, and suddenly it’s as if I’m not there. ‘Look, he left you flowers.’

  ‘I adore him so much,’ Jenny replies, blushing the same colour as the bunch of roses that are on her virtual doorstep.

  ‘They cost a whole load of credits. He must really like you.’

  I watch the pair immersed in their oh-so-real world that doesn’t exist outside of their minds. To Jenny, the flowers mean as much, if not more, than if the boy in question had hand-delivered the bouquet. I watch as she clicks to accept the gift. A messenger boy character asks if she would like to send a gift in return.

  ‘Oh, make him wait,’ Fliss advises. ‘Play hard to get.’

  I clear my throat and they turn to me. ‘Is it possible to find someone specific?’

  ‘Sure. There are lots of search options.’ Jenny wiggles the mouse pointer over the flowers. In another two clicks, they are in a vase in her pink virtual bedroom.

  ‘But you can’t be that person’s friend unless they accept you. It’s a safety thing.’

  I nod, smiling, willing away the tears. ‘That’s good.’

  Fliss looks at me oddly then pulls a packet of tissues from her blazer. ‘Take these, miss.’ The girls eye each other warily, feeling sorry for me. Jenny brings up an advanced search form.

  ‘Do you have a username to search for?’ she asks.

  I think hard, blowing my nose. ‘No, I don’t.’ Is that it then? I wonder. A brief glimpse into another world; a world with a lure so strong, I can feel the tug in every cell of my heart.

  ‘You can still search using a real name. But if you’re looking for a Jane Smith, then expect to trawl through hundreds of results.’

  The girls are being kind, yet I sense their impatience. Jenny’s fingers are poised above the keys, the cursor blinking in the box. I look at each of them, wondering if their mothers are thinking about them at this particular moment, hoping they are enjoying school, that they are eating properly, that they have friends, that they are doing their homework, that, most of all, they are happy.

  ‘Why don’t you phone your parents later?’ I suggest. ‘Tell your mums that you love them.’ Jenny and Fliss don’t actually laugh although I can tell they want to spray out a giggle. But deep within them, I see a glimmer of thought, as if maybe it’s not such a stupid suggestion.

  ‘Mine’s on holiday in Florida. She won’t be up for hours.’

  ‘And my mum’s always in meetings. She’ll get really mad if I interrupt her.’ Fliss picks at her nails. The varnish is coming off.

  ‘I bet they love you so much,’ I say wistfully.

  ‘Miss, we don’t want to be rude but if a teacher comes in . . .’ Jenny pulls a face. ‘Do you have a real name I can search for?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do,’ I say, standing up and leaning over Jenny to get a better view of the screen. This is it, I think. This is the moment when the past catches up with the present, when everything I’ve been holding back becomes real. I hold my breath, close my eyes. Then, with my lips close to her ear, my voice not much more than a warm whisper, I say, ‘I want you to search for a Josephine Kennedy.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Nina did the washing-up twice. She scrubbed the table and swept the floor. She rummaged in the cleaning cupboard until she found polish that made the dining table shine and the windows gleam. She took the rubbish to the dustbin, emptied the dishwasher for the second time, vacuumed the living-room carpet and the upholstery, as well as swiping away fine threads of cobwebs from the ceiling with a feather duster. She took to the door handles with brass cleaner, and bleached and cleaned the downstairs toilet. She put the tablecloth and linen napkins they had used at dinner into the machine and put them on a boil wash.

  At 2 a.m., Nina sat on the edge of a cane chair overlooking the garden. The garden lights leading down to the studio were still on.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing up?’

  She turned. Mick was beside her, wearing only his check pyjama shorts. His face was puffy with sleep. She welcomed his closeness yet wanted to shove him away. Nina’s thoughts spun as fast as the washing machine. It had been the worst evening of her life – nearly the worst – and she hadn’t a clue what she should do. Her priority was to keep her family safe.

  ‘I’ve been clearing up.’ Nina didn’t recognise her own voice. Cleaning like a whirlwind was her way of blocking out what was happening. What had always been going to happen, if only she’d stopped to think about it. She’d been wearing a blindfold, conning herself, her husband, her daughter.

  ‘But we already did the washing-up. I heard noise.’ Mick glanced around the spotless room and frowned. ‘You’ve been cleaning at this hour?’

  ‘I wante
d to get rid . . .’ Nina turned and stared back out of the window. ‘I wanted to get it done.’

  Mick caught her chin with his finger and turned her to face him. He squatted beside her chair. ‘Are you upset about something?’ His breathing was on a similar precipice to hers – jerky, shallow, tight.

  Nina shook her head. She couldn’t look into those eyes, the same ones that had watched her transform from young woman to mature businesswoman and mother. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘It was too much for you tonight.’ Mick sighed. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to the stupid meeting in the first place.’ He stared down the garden, following Nina’s gaze. Then he turned and left a kiss on her cheek. It was slow, vaguely sorrowful, loaded with regret. ‘If it’s any consolation, I have to do some paintings for him.’

  ‘Oh!’ Nina’s cheeks flushed. ‘Well . . . that’s great,’ she added, feeling guilty that Mick was trying to play down his success. This was terrible news.

  ‘He says he has clients lining up to buy artwork that’s, well, a little different.’ Mick shifted and folded his arms. ‘He’s asked me to do some paintings that will fill a gap in the market.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Nina said flatly. She didn’t want to sound too downbeat, but this was the worst possible outcome. Explaining to Mick was not an option. Normally, she’d sleep on problems, but this time there would be no restful separation of night and day, no recharging, no bright-eyed decision-making while consulting the rest of the family. How dare Burnett use Mick to get to her. He was gutless as well as deranged.

  Mick hugged her – a tight, close embrace that to Nina symbolised both the end and the beginning. Tears made her vision blur, obliterating the very centre of the life she adored. ‘Oh Mick,’ she said, hiccupping back a sob.